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Looking back, Sherlock could only blame his lack of sleep for his lapse in dexterity. It was also, he knew, the reason why he’d handled the fallout so disastrously. Exhaustion often led to increased sensitivity, and he’d already been on edge.
The three of them had been sitting together in 221B’s kitchen, enjoying breakfast the morning after a very long case. It had taken almost two weeks to wrap everything up, and had involved a painfully large amount of time spent in large crowds and hectic environments.
Honestly, Sherlock could have done with another couple of hours in bed to more firmly recover, but John had been insistent that his partner needed to eat something more substantial than the packs of apple slices and oatmeal biscuits he’d been subsisting off of for the six previous days.
And so they’d gathered, half-asleep but cheerful, in the upstairs flat’s kitchen whilst John handled the fry-up, Sherlock set the table and Mariana fussed over Archie and put together a shopping list for later in the day.
“Ok, order up!” John called out, flipping the last pieces of bacon onto the waiting plates, “three bang-up breakfasts, ready to go!”
He carried them over, bringing Mariana’s to her first before going back for Sherlock’s and his own. As he placed the dishes down, he bent and pressed a kiss against Sherlock’s temple, causing the detective to flush slightly but lean into the contact. He watched the podcaster settle into the chair next to him, and reached out to squeeze his hand – earning himself an affectionate smile and returned squeeze – before picking up his knife and fork.
The breakfast itself had gone fine, with Mariana and John bickering light-heartedly as they ate and Sherlock listening in, not quite ready to get involved but content in the presence of his partner and closest friend.
He had to admit that he felt better by the time his plate was cleared, though he still desperately needed some sleep. That was fine, though – he could do so whilst the others went to the shops, and perhaps would wake up later to find John snuggled against him.
Settled on his plan for the morning, and seeing that the others had also finished their meals, Sherlock stood and began to clear the table.
And that’s where it all went downhill.
Reaching across for John’s Swindon Town mug – whose handle was facing away from him – Sherlock wrapped his fingers around the rim, lifting it vertically. It was a move he’d used many times in the past, the fingertips of his left hand somewhat dulled to heat sensitivity due to his frequent use of his violin. This time, however, something must have been wrong in his grip. He’d picked the mug up, and had just turned to face the sink when something shifted, and it fell from his grasp.
Had he been more alert, perhaps he could have attempted to make a grab for the mug as it fell. However, in his sleep-deprived state, all he’d been able to do was watch in horror as it slammed into the linoleum floor, shattering into red ceramic shards.
“Oh no, no, no!” John cried out, kneeling down and frantically gathering up the pieces. “No, c’mon, shit!”
He gathered them all together, before placing them onto the kitchen table and dropping heavily into his seat again. Sherlock felt his heart breaking as he took in John’s slumped form. Still, he couldn’t bring himself to move. It was as though static was playing in his ears, leaving him unable to think, only to see the mess he’d made and his partner’s devastated expression.
“John?” Mariana questioned, evidently also taking in how upset the other was. “Are you OK?”
“I…” John trailed off, placing a few of the larger pieces together before putting them back down again and dropping his face into his hands with a sigh.
“I know it was your favourite mug, but… can’t you get another one?”
“No, I can’t.” he replied, voice muffled by his hands. “It was one made back in the 90s, they don’t do these ones any more. I…” he sighed again, and appeared to droop even further. “… it was my dad’s. He used it all the time when I was a kid, and I started using it after… Well. After. Took it with me to uni.”
Sherlock went cold.
Across the table, Mariana winced in sympathy. “Oh, John, I’m so sorry.” she replied gently, reaching across to pat his shoulder.
“John, I-” Sherlock’s voice cracked, and he swallowed reflexively as he tried to clear it. “I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry.”
“No, Sherls, it’s… it’s OK. It was just an accident.” the podcaster replied, looking up and offering a watery smile. Sherlock only felt worse, hating the quiet, resigned undertone in his partner’s voice and the fact that it was John’s nature to try and soothe him when he was the one that broke such an important item.
He hated it.
He hated himself more.
Feeling his eyes start to burn, and looked away, swallowing again. The room was quiet for a long moment, before he forced himself to speak. “I’m going to go lie down.”
“Alright, love.” John replied, “Get some rest.”
Usually, John would make a habit of kissing his cheek when Sherlock left to have time alone. But this time, his attention seemed fixed on the two pieces of ceramic that, together, formed the football club’s coat of arms.
‘That’s to be expected’, Sherlock thought to himself, ‘I certainly don’t deserve any affection right now’.
He went back to his room, closing the door and collapsing into his bed. Despite his exhaustion, though, he couldn’t seem to fall asleep. He listened to the quiet noises of John and Mariana tidying up the kitchen (another jolt of self-loathing struck at the realisation that he hadn’t even helped to clean) and leaving the flat, the squeal of their door signifying their departure.
And then, silence. Nothing to hear but the distant noise of traffic and his own breathing, shallow and uneven.
No matter how many times he tried to clear his mind, it kept circling back to the mug breaking. To John’s expression, his quiet admission, the defeat in his posture as he took in one of his few remaining links to the late Harry Watson. The link that Sherlock had managed to damage beyond repair.
Realising sleep was futile, and desperate to avoid the spiral he could feel threatening the edge of his consciousness, Sherlock tried to compartmentalise his emotions in order to figure out a solution. He’d done something wrong and hurt John, ergo he had to find a suitable way to apologise. Grabbing a nearby notepad and pen, he starting thinking of ways he could make things right.
For each suggestion that came to mind, however, it was proven almost instantly unviable. Either impossible to achieve – like piecing it back together perfectly so that it was usable again - or simply not good enough – buying a replacement wouldn’t make up for the sentimental value behind the original mug.
He began to score lines through each failed idea, lines growing angrier the more worked up he became at himself. When one particular stroke ripped through the page he threw the notepad to the floor and curled up, hands gripping at his hair and tugging hard enough to pull some hairs loose.
Sometimes, on his worse days, the pain from such an act would be enough to bring him back into focus, but as his eyes blurred with tears and his chest ached from his harsh breathing he realised he was too far gone. The instant that thought hit him, the walls holding back the self-loathing crumbled to dust, and Sherlock’s mind was flooded with vitriol.
“Awful excuse for a partner!” it screamed at him, “Who ruins something so important like that? You knew the mug held significance and you still went and broke it! Losing your grip like a child!”
“John was heartbroken, and you did that!” another voice wailed, “He’s gone through so much heartbreak in the time he’s known you. Been hurt so many times. And still he was kind, still he let you go without being angry at you.”
“But what if he didn’t, this time?” came a third, quiet but horrified, “What if this was the final straw, the thing he could not forgive you for? What if he leaves? Walks away from you?”
“As he should!” came the first angry voice, “He should leave, like everyone else leaves, before he gets hurt again. You hurt everyone you care about, there’s a reason why nobody stays!”
“No, that’s not true!” he cried, trying desperately to shut things down.
“Of course it’s true, you have all the proof in your past!”
“John won’t leave, he- he loves me!”
“So did Victor, but he still left you.”
“It’s not-”
“And why would he stay? What reason does he have? Breaking his things, hurting his feelings, putting him in danger with the cases – what reason does he have to love you?”
Sherlock tried to think of a counter-argument, a reason. He knew distantly that there were reasons, that John had told him those reasons before. But now, lying alone in his bed with nothing but his self-loathing keeping him company, they slipped from his grip like the mug, falling and shattering into splintered fragments that he couldn’t hope to put back together by himself.
The voices crowed in victory, and Sherlock Holmes shook apart.
John placed the heavy shopping bags down with a sigh, glad to be back in the warm confines of the flat. Tesco had been packed, and he and Mariana had ended up needing to venture over to the Sainsbury’s a few streets away to hunt down Pink Lady apples for Sherlock after discovering the first shop was out of stock.
He knew he’d been quieter than usual as they shopped, but Mariana had understood. She’d talked about a small cat figurine on her shelf that her own dad had given her when she first moved away from home, and how it wasn’t expensive but meant the world to her. She’d acknowledged their situations weren’t the same, but John had thanked her anyway.
Stepping into the kitchen, he glanced over at the pile of ceramic pieces sitting on the counter with another pang of loss.
Closing his eyes, he was taken back to another, larger, kitchen in Wiltshire, with the mug placed by the kettle, steam gently floating from it. To a hand, strong and sure, grabbing the handle and bringing it to a smiling mouth, its warm voice interrupted by a swig of the contents. The sounds of two adults joking together as they navigated the kitchen, before that same hand reached out to him and that same voice told him they were going to be late to the match if he didn’t hurry up with his toast.
That same mug, held in smaller hands after getting back from the wake, with the other adult telling him quietly to drink the hot chocolate within it before it gets too cold. Gripping it tight enough for his hands to ache with the force, at once certain that to let go of the mug would be to let go of it’s former owner.
The same mug, stable and unchanging as the world around it did. As those smaller hands grew, and the kitchen counter it sat upon changed and changed again. The months where it sat at the back of a cupboard, kept safe until its new owner returned home and used it once more.
He opened his eyes, taking in the broken pieces, and felt a swell of emotion in his chest. The mug was gone. After more than twenty years of being a set piece in his life, it was gone.
But, he reflected as he started to put the groceries away, that didn’t mean the memories were gone. They’d still be there, bright and warm in his mind whenever he thought back to all those mornings. And it wasn’t like the mug was the only thing of his dad’s that he owned. His watch was the true prized possession, the one that would destroy him if it was broken.
And he had other things, little mementos like the little souvenir trinket on his desk from a childhood trip to the beach. Back in Tockenham, his mum had kept aside Harry Watson’s smartest cufflinks for him, worn on their wedding day.
Finished with the shopping, he made his way back over to the mug, picking up the largest piece and running his thumb across its surface gently. It still hurt, but even now the pain seemed less severe, the nostalgia replacing the heartbreak.
It would be OK.
He placed the piece down again, before moving across to Sherlock’s bedroom door. Pressing his ear against the wood, he couldn’t make out any sound from inside and guessed that his partner had, hopefully, fallen asleep.
Part of him considered entering the room, checking in on the detective, but his concern about disturbing the other’s rest overpowered the urge. He knew the case had been a rough one, and that Sherlock had been running on fumes by the end of it all.
If he hadn’t also been so worried about the need for his partner to eat, he’d have let the other stay in bed that morning. But throughout the case’s proceedings, he’d worriedly taken note of the minimal calories ingested, Combined with Sherlock’s naturally-lanky frame and lack of body fat, and the amount of running around they’d dealt with towards the end, John had decided that nutrition had to be prioritised over sleep in the scenario.
He didn’t regret the choice – he’d seen how quickly Sherlock had scarfed down his breakfast once he’d started eating – but after the accident, through the haze of grief over the broken mug, Sherlock had sounded out-of-sorts enough that he hadn’t put up any resistance to the detective going back to bed. Perhaps the noise had been one thing too many, and he’d needed to retreat and have space to himself again.
Figuring the other likely still needed that space, he walked away again, busying himself in the living room where he started to make notes from the latest case and compiling the recorded audio. Sherlock would be up and moving soon enough, he figured, and he’d rather be done with the work as soon as possible so he could fit in a good cuddling session on the couch that evening to unwind.
Lunchtime came and passed with no sign of Sherlock. John felt concerned, but theorised that the other had really needed the sleep. As it approached dinnertime with still no sign of his partner, however, the concern grew. Skipping one meal was… not great, but manageable. Skipping two was more of an issue post-case.
Making up his mind, he saved his progress, shut down the laptop, and wandered into the kitchen. Half an hour later he left it again, two plates of penne pasta with tomato sauce sitting on the table ready to be eaten.
“Sherlock?” he called out through the closed door, “It’s almost 7pm, love. D’you think you could be up to joining me out here for some food? I made your favourite!”
When no response came, John grabbed the handle and turned it, peeking his head through the door into the darkened room. The light behind him shone through, illuminating the detective’s bed – and the detective himself.
The sight made his heart drop.
“Oh, Sherlock…” he murmured, taking in the other’s curled up position and tear-stained cheeks in despair.
He should have checked in on his partner sooner – had known he’d been upset with the accident that morning. At the time he’d assumed it was pure overstimulation, but clearly something more had been going on. How long had his beloved ended up lying there, crying, before he’d finally dozed off?
He made his way across to the bed, settling carefully onto the side of it and reaching out to gently brush Sherlock’s unruly curls back from his face. Feeling the other man shift before settling, he continued to card his fingertips through the other’s hair, avoiding the tangles where he’d clearly run his hands through it. John’s heart broke even further for him, easily picturing how worked up the detective must have been.
As he sat, he glanced around the room and spotted the upturned notepad on the floor, splayed as if it had been dropped or thrown. Without breaking contact with his partner, John bent down and picked it up, flipping it over to the most recent entry.
It was messy – far more so than was usual for Sherlock’s writing – with what appeared to be a bullet-point list where each entry had been heavily scored out. He was able to make out the occasional word amongst the harsh lines, but not enough to make heads nor tails of the overall context.
Putting it on the bedside table, he focused back on Sherlock, recognising the signs that his partner was waking up. Sure enough, a minute or so later the detective’s eyes flickered open blearily, flickering before glancing up at him.
The second their eyes met, Sherlock seemed to shrink further into himself, expression an awful combination of fear, guilt and heartbreak.
“Hey there, Sherls. What’s wrong?” he asked, keeping his tone gentle for fear that anything louder would make things worse.
Apparently even that wasn’t enough, however – Sherlock’s expression crumpled, fresh tears welling up as his breathing stuttered. “I- I’m-”
“Oh, sweetheart,” John breathed, lying down next to Sherlock and opening his arms, “can I hug you? Would contact be good or bad?”
He watched as Sherlock moved towards him, only to freeze and pull back. “Y-you don’t have to, John.”
“I know I don’t, but I’d like to.” he replied quietly, “Especially if it’d help you. Would it help?”
Another long pause as the detective seemed to war with himself, before nodding jerkily. Not waiting another moment, John reached across and pulled his partner into his arms. He felt Sherlock tense for a long moment, before melting into the contact, trembling.
“Shh, shh, it’s alright, love. Let it out, you’re safe.” he murmured, pressing gentle kisses against Sherlock’s curls. A sob answered him, and soon enough Sherlock was weeping against his chest, hands clutching desperately at his shirt.
John’s heart clenched at the sound, but he forced himself to remain where he was, keeping his grip on him firm and comforting. He whispered endearments and soothing noises into Sherlock’s hair but otherwise remained quiet and allowed the other to cry.
After a while, he noticed that the sobs were interspersed with the detective’s voice, shaking and too quiet to understand at first. John pressed closer, closing his eyes to focus on what was being said.
His heart broke as the sounds began to form frantic words.
“- and I promise I’ll find a way to solve it, somehow, John, just please - please don’t walk away. I’m sorry, please don’t leave!”
Unable to hear the usually-confident man so shaken for another moment, John squeezed the other tighter, clearing his throat before cutting in.
“Sherlock, stop. Listen to me, ok? Are you listening?”
John shuffled back far enough to meet his partner’s eyes, shifting one hand up to cup his jaw as he spoke.
“I was upset this morning about it, but I was never upset with you. It was an accident, I know it wasn’t broken on purpose and I don’t blame you for it, so you need to stop blaming yourself, OK?”
“But-“ Sherlock began, but John tapped his thumb lightly against his lips to shush him.
“Nope, no ‘but’s here, Sherls. None at all. If you need me to say the words, despite them not being necessary, then know that I forgive you, and I love you, and I’m certainly not leaving you over a broken mug.”
“It was your father’s mug,” Sherlock whispered, “it has immense sentimental value.” He sniffed, a few more tears escaping. “You were devastated this morning, it’s not just a broken mug.”
John sighed, internally kicking himself for not acting sooner and saving his detective from the emotional upheaval.
“Ok, you’re right. It was a very important mug to me, and it held a lot of sentimental value. But,” he continued as Sherlock drew into himself, “no matter how much I cared about the mug, I care about you infinitely more. You, your happiness and well-being, Sherls. You are more important to me than anything else in the world.”
He drew Sherlock’s face closer and pressed a feather-light kiss against his forehead, followed by kisses to his cheeks and his closed eyes.
“You are precious to me beyond words, love. The only way I’d ever willingly leave you would be if you told me to go. And even then I’d probably argue with you like the stubborn twat I am.” He admitted, feeling a swoop of relief at Sherlock’s watery laugh in response.
They stayed together for some time, wrapped around each other and enjoying the closeness. Eventually, however, they had to separate – Sherlock’s stomach let out a loud growl that had him flushing and John fighting back a laugh.
“C’mon, you,” he murmured, pressing a final kiss against his partner’s cheek before letting go, “it’s past dinnertime, and you haven’t eaten since this morning. There’s penne with tomato sauce in the kitchen, but given how cold it likely is now I think a takeaway is in order. How does pizza from that one place on Paddington Street sound?”
He watched fondly as Sherlock perked up slightly, looking a little more accepting of getting up. “’Alley Cats’?” his partner checked, hopefully.
“The one and only. Are you feeling more like a margherita or a pepperoni?”
“Hmm… pepperoni, please.”
John nodded, grabbing his phone and searching for the phone number. “Alright, one pepperoni, one vodka sauce, and I think a tiramisu to share afterwards. It feels a bit like a tiramisu day.”
As John left the room, starting to dial the pizzeria, Sherlock took a long moment to reflect on everything. He felt exhausted, still, but in a more positive way than he had that morning. The crying at the end had been cathartic, leaving him worn out but overall in a better mindset than he had been. John had always been very good at that – helping him process things that felt overwhelming to face alone.
He smiled to himself slightly as he got up, reflecting on how mistaken he’d been in assuming John would walk away from him so easily. He’d had no reason to doubt his podcaster’s loyalty or love, even if at the time he’d felt as if he didn’t deserve it.
During the worst of it, he’d made a comparison to his relationship with Victor, but that had been different. He hadn’t been clear with Victor at the time, still unsure about how exactly he felt, and both of them had been too new to relationships to fully understand each other.
John had known from the start that any relationship they had wouldn’t be a ‘normal’ kind. He’d taken to the idea of queer-platonic relationships easily, and had made sure to check in with Sherlock regularly to see what he was and wasn’t comfortable with.
The idea that Sherlock disliked being kissed on the lips but was comfortable – and delighted by – kisses anywhere else on his face hadn’t phased him in the slightest. John had already been used to checking in with him prior to hugs and things, so the only change there had been in the frequency.
As it turned out, both of them were major fans of cuddling, even if Sherlock wasn’t keen on admitting to it. Any evening where they weren’t actively working a case would usually end in the two of them curled together in some capacity, whether side-by-side in the kitchen or Sherlock’s head resting on John’s lap as they watched TV.
Sherlock truly could not have imagined a better partner in life than John Watson.
Deciding to be helpful as John placed the order, Sherlock left his room and – after a stop in the bathroom – went to the kitchen to tidy away the cold pasta. It was as he was scraping away the last remnants from one of the bowls that he looked up and saw the remains of the mug on the counter.
He froze, feeling a pang of regret at the sombre reminder. He still couldn’t believe he’d been stupid enough to-
His thoughts were interrupted by the feeling of John’s palm cupping his jaw, turning him to face his partner as the podcaster removed the bowl from his grip with his other hand.
“All OK, yeah?” John murmured, and Sherlock felt him rub his thumb gently across his cheekbone. He took a steadying breath and nodded, seeing the other smile warmly in response.
Soon enough, the buzzer downstairs rang, and a few minutes later saw the two of them sitting together on the sofa, pizza boxes in their laps and Archie hovering by their feet in the hopes of a treat. John put the TV on, flicking between channels before settling on an airport border control show. They ate quietly, with the occasional passing comment on the wilder passenger stories.
Otherwise, Sherlock let his mind drift, finding himself thinking over the broken mug now and again. He still wanted to find a resolution, or some way of improving the situation, but what?
A memory of something he’d seen before flashed through his mind, and Sherlock focused on it, trying to remember. A few moments later it came back to him fully, and with it he had his solution.
He waited for the next advert break before speaking up.
“Kintsugi.”
“Hmm?” John replied, confused.
Sherlock glanced towards the kitchen, looking back and explaining. “Kintsugi. Also referred to as kintsukuroi. It’s a form of art created by the Japanese. They fix broken pottery by using a lacquer that has powdered gold mixed into it.”
He placed his pizza box aside – well out of reach of Archie - before getting up to retrieve the mug from the kitchen. Settling down again, he held up two of the pieces and slotted them together, angling them towards John who was watching with wide eyes.
“The philosophy behind it is that, rather than hiding the damage or throwing it away, it brings the breaks to attention in a positive light. By making the breakage both visible and beautiful, it accepts that the damage is a part of an object’s history.”
The look John sent his way was so full of affection and wonder that he felt his cheeks heat up. “That sounds like the perfect solution, love. A way to keep the memories alive.”
The other man laughed slightly, adding, “Plus, it’d be the closest Swindon Town has come to gold for some time, much as I hate to admit it.”
He watched John close up his own pizza box and set it aside, before taking the pieces of mug from Sherlock and carefully placing them down too.
“We can look into where we could get it done in the morning. For now, I’d like to cuddle with my partner and watch more people trying to smuggle drugs into a country in ridiculous ways.” John told him, leaning back and raising his arms. Sherlock settled in happily, content to do exactly as his partner asked.
‘Accepting the damage as part of its history’, he thought to himself, ‘perhaps that can apply to more than pottery, after all’.